The Cask by Freeman Wills Crofts (feel good novels .txt) 📕

house was locked up on the day in question. The staff in the Hôtel Maximilian in Brussels would know whether or not he was there on the Wednesday night, and could tell about the receipt of the telephone message booking the room. Finally, it would be worth finding out if Berlioz’s Les Troyens was really given on that evening at the Théâtre de la Monnaie.

As Lefarge thought over the matter, he saw that the statement was one which admitted of a good many tests, and he felt that, if it stood those he had enumerated, it might be fully accepted.

XIX The Testing of an Alibi

The Seine was looking its best on the following morning, as Lefarge boarded an eastbound steamer at the Pont des Artes, behind the Louvre. The day was charming, the air having some of the warmth and colouring of summer, without having lost the clear freshness of spring. As the boat swung out into the current, the detective recalled the last occasion on which he had embarked at this same pier⁠—that on which he and Burnley had gone downstream to Grenelle to call on M. Thévenet at the statuary works. This time the same quest took him in the opposite direction, and they passed round the Ile de la Cité, along the quais, whose walls are topped by the stalls of the book-vendors of the Latin Quarter, past the stately twin towers of Notre Dame, and under the bridge of the Metropolitaine opposite the Gare d’Austerlitz. As they steamed up the broad river the buildings became less and less imposing, till before they had covered the four miles to the suburb of Charenton, where the Marne pours its waters into the Seine, trees and patches of green had begun to appear.

Landing at Charenton, which was as far as the steamer went, Lefarge strolled up the street in the direction of the station, looking for a restaurant with an overhanging, half-timbered front. He had not to make a long search. The largest and most pretentious café in the street answered the description and, when he saw telephone wires leading to it, he felt it was indeed the one he sought. Entering, he sat down at one of the small marble-topped tables and called for a bock.

The room was fair sized, with a bar at one corner, and a small dancing stage facing the door. But for the detective, it was untenanted. An elderly, white-moustached waiter passed back and forward from some room in the rear.

“Pleasant day,” said Lefarge, when this man came over with his bock. “I suppose you don’t get busy till later on?”

The man admitted it.

“Well, I hear you give a very good lunch, anyway,” continued the detective. “A friend of mine lunched here some days ago and was much pleased. And he’s not so easy to satisfy either.”

The waiter smiled and bowed.

“We try to do our best, monsieur. It is very gratifying to learn that your friend was satisfied.”

“Did he not tell you so? He generally says what he thinks.”

“I am not sure that I know your friend, monsieur. When was he here?”

“Oh, you’d remember him right enough if you saw him. There he is.” Lefarge took a photograph of Boirac from his pocket and handed it over.

“But yes, monsieur. Quite well I remember your friend. But,” he hesitated slightly, “he did not strike me as being so much pleased with the lunch as you suggest. I thought indeed he considered the restaurant not quite⁠—” He shrugged his shoulders.

“He was not very well, but he was pleased right enough. It was last Thursday he was here, wasn’t it?”

“Last Thursday, monsieur? No, I think it was earlier. Let me see, I think it was Monday.”

“I made a mistake. It was not Thursday. I remember now it was Tuesday he said. Was it not Tuesday?”

“Perhaps it was, monsieur, I am not certain; though I rather think it was Monday.”

“He telephoned to me that day from Charenton⁠—I think he said from here. Did he telephone from here?”

“Yes, monsieur, he made two calls. See, there is the telephone. We allow all our patrons to use it.”

“An excellent idea. I am sure it is much appreciated. But there was an unfortunate mistake about the message he sent me. It was making an appointment, and he did not turn up. I am afraid I misunderstood what he said. Could you hear the message? Perhaps, if so, you would tell me if he spoke of an appointment on last Tuesday?”

The waiter, who up to then had been all smiles and amiability, flashed a suspicious little glance at the detective. He continued to smile politely, but Lefarge felt he had closed up like an oyster in his shell, and when he replied: “I could not hear, monsieur. I was engaged with the service,” the other suspected he was lying.

He determined to try a bluff. Changing his manner and speaking authoritatively, though in a lower tone, he said:⁠—

“Now, look here, garçon. I am a detective officer. I want to find out about those telephone messages, and I don’t want to have the trouble of taking you to the Sûreté to interrogate you.” He took out a five-franc piece. “If you can tell me what he said, this will be yours.”

A look of alarm came into the man’s eyes.

“But, monsieur⁠—” he began.

“Come now, I am certain you know, and you’ve got to tell. You may as well do it now and get your five francs, as later on at the Sûreté and for nothing. What do you say now? Which is it to be?”

The waiter remained silent, and it was obvious to Lefarge that he was weighing his course of action. His hesitation convinced the detective that he really did know the messages, and he determined to strike again.

“Perhaps you are doubtful whether I really am from the Sûreté,” he suggested. “Look at that.”

He displayed his detective’s credentials, and the sight seemed to bring the other to